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Dinner Guest
I awoke, my vision blurry. The room around me was dark and the only source of light seemed to be a lone candle upon the dark mahogany table in front of me. I was strapped to my seat and couldn’t move. There was one other chair to my left with no one in it. There was no light and simply one door across from me. I yelled out for help but received no response. I shuffled in my chair, hoping it might move or better yet topple over. It stood fast and I realized I was stuck there. I called out again with panic growing in my voice, “Hello, is anyone here?” After a few moments I heard a muffled voice finally respond. “Just a moment my dear...dinner is almost ready,” the person said. The voice sounded male, but I could tell little else about him. I could only sit and wonder what he meant by ‘dinner’. I also could not recall how I came to be here. All I knew was my head was pounding and the last thing I remembered was having drinks with my friends for girls' night. I had not been out of the house since my mother passed away last month and they all agreed I needed to get out of my head for a little while. At that particular moment, all I wanted was to get out of that chair. I tried moving again and a pain pulsed from under my legs. I cringed as it shot up my thigh. I tried to lean back and see what the cause of my suffering could be but it was no use, I was bound too tightly to my seat. I cried out for help again but my pleas were cut short as the door swung open and light filled the room. A tall pale man stepped out from what appeared to be a kitchen. The fluorescence behind him blinded me from his appearance to begin with but he soon stepped in to allow the door to close. “Ah, you’re awake. Good, I will bring you some wine,” the man said. His black hair had been slicked back and he wore a white double-breasted jacket with an apron wrapped around his waist. It appeared I would be the unwilling guest of Chef Crazy. He disappeared again into the kitchen, only to return a few moments later with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He set them adjacent to one another, and filled them carefully. Then he lifted the bottle slightly and turned the label toward me. “This is a Pinot Noir, 1956. It will pair very well with our meal and I hope you enjoy them both,” a smile curled behind his words. He looked down at my secured frame, then he tapped his palm against his head, as if he could have forgotten, before stating, “Silly me! You will need help with your drink!” He picked up the glass and brought it to my lips. I turned my face away and stared intently at him from my peripheral. I growled at him, “What the hell is this?” He set the glass down and wiped his hands on a small black and white hand towel that rested at his hip. He gave a disappointed sigh while leaning down. I felt his fingers brush against my cheek but I quickly pulled away. “You see, I do enjoy cooking. I always have but I am told I am not very good at it,” he said while emoting with his hands. “I usually stick to the simple recipes and I am working on perfecting them. I know you want to know what we are having but you will have to be patient. I would really hate to ruin the surprise,” the words fell from his lips easily and as soon as they were done he turned to walk away. The whole thing unnerved me. He sounded too comfortable and must have done this all before. Before I could speak again he had faded into the kitchen. I began looking around the room for any possible means of escape, but all I could see was the table set and the candle. There were two windows but large crimson curtains covered them and let no light through. I tried to move the chair once more and again I felt pain pulse through my lower body. The chair wasn’t moving and I couldn’t stand trying to make it. My chest became tight and I felt as though I might hyperventilate. I could barely contain the feeling of desperation. I could feel the warmth of tear drops cascade down my cheeks. I had been with my friends all night. I never took a drink from a stranger. I must have been drugged but I have no idea how or when it may have occurred. I had only had two cosmopolitans that I could remember. My internal conversation was interrupted by a smell wafting through the air. It was familiar but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. My captor arrived again, pushing a service cart with a silver tray that was covered. He moved the tray from the cart to the table before pushing the cart to the side. His hand reached for the covering, lifting it quickly and shouting in a fake Italian accent, “Viola!” The sudden noised made me jump. My eyes shifted to the dish that revealed pale winding noodles knotted into a pile with red chunky sauce that included ground meat. I had been abducted to have a spaghetti dinner with this psycho. I looked up at him, my eyes furrowed and noticed he was giving me the cheesiest grin I had ever seen. He truly looked pleased with himself. “I hope you like it,” he beamed, “It’s my best dish!” I don’t know what made this man think I would be putting anything he brought me into my mouth but within moments he was wrapping strands of pasta around a fork and guiding it toward me. I turned away again before speaking, “I am not eating that!” I quickly closed my lips together and cut my eyes at him. He lowered the fork and his smile faded. “I think you would like it if you tried it,” he murmured. “It’s good, I promise! If you don’t believe me--,” he paused and pushed the fork into his mouth. He chewed for a moment before speaking again, “See…delicious!” He scooped more onto the fork and twisted the strings around again and leaned toward me. “NO,” I yelled, “just get me out of this chair and get me out of this place!” The fork was set upon the plate and his hands rested upon his hips. “How about this,” he mused, “if you will take a few bites of my pasta I will let you up from the chair.” His tone raised to signify a question along with his eyebrows. I thought for a moment as my eyes turned toward him. I had no real way to make him let me go, and maybe this was my only way out. I just wasn’t sure if I should, just because he ate it didn't mean something might not be wrong with it. Even something as simple as him not washing his hands could make me sick. How well was the meat cooked? I could get E.coli or Salmonella. He had said earlier he was a bad cook. I could be allergic to something in it. Hell, I didn’t even know what was in it! “Well?” he interrupted my thought process. His voice growing more annoyed. “Fine,” I said with a sigh of defeat. I had given in and I could only hope that this wouldn’t be my last meal. He clapped his hands together and gave a little giggle before turning to grab the fork again. The sauce dribbled from the thin strands of pasta as it came closer. Just the sight of it in his hands made my stomach turn a little. I opened my mouth slightly and he placed the portion within. I closed my mouth and my eyes at the same time and prayed to myself. It rolled about between my teeth for a moment and when I opened my eyes he was giving me that stupid grin again. Surprisingly, the food was good. Really good, as a matter-of-fact. I chewed every bit and gave a gulping swallow. My eyes probably gave away my enjoyment and he went for another fork-full. He brought it quickly and pressed it toward my face. I hesitated but this honestly was the best spaghetti I had ever eaten. After I had consumed half the plate I finally remembered that the whole point was to taste it in order to be set free. “Ok, it was good but I would really like to be out of this chair now,” I gave him a stern tone. He frowned a little but set the fork back down. “Alright, a deal is a deal,” his voice sounding disappointed. He approached and removed the straps holding my upper body to the back of the chair and then knelt down to release my legs. A sound of metal clanking was heard. I could only assume he was unfastening whatever held the chair in place first. Then I could feel his hand brush against my thigh as the binding across my legs was loosened and allowed to fall to the side. As soon as I was free I attempted to stand up. Hot searing pain echoed up from my legs to my spine and now that I was loose I could move back enough to see why. Long strips of my skin and muscle had been removed from my thigh region and been covered slightly with bandages. The cloth had soaked through with my blood but I could tell that this wound was deep. “I’m sorry,” he frowned, “The numbness will wear off in a few hours. I accidently used too much anesthetic. I have always been bad with measurements.” My body shook and tears rolled down my face. I touched at the bandages, my legs not wanting to move. I found myself spouting anything that came to mind, “Why? What is this? Who are you? Oh God, my legs!” The man simply dried his hands on the hand towel again and watched me, his face expressionless. When I noticed him staring at me I leaned forward and the words came loud, “What the fuck have you done to me?” He stepped forward and picked up the plate. He began taking bites of it. “I told you I had been trying to perfect my cooking,” the words where slightly garbled since he was spurting them through mouthfuls of pasta. Then a thought crept into my head slowly. The entire time I had been devouring the delicacy I had not even let myself consider that it hadn’t smelled like any spaghetti I had ever had and definitely didn’t taste the same. My eyes slowly widened and I could feel vomit rising up my throat. I hunched over and the rancid dinner splattered across the floor. The man jumped back from the mess quickly and sat the plate on the cart. “Did my spaghetti not agree with your stomach?” he asked as he rushed to wipe the remnants off my face. “Don’t worry, there is plenty more and since you won’t be going anywhere anytime soon why not have a few more bites?” the question came with that same sick smile. I spat at him and tumbled to the floor. My body screamed at me as I slammed hard onto the wooden floor. I cried out before yelling, “No, I’m getting out of here. I am going home and you are going to be fucked!” He smiled at me and came closer. He picked up the chair and placed it at the table. Then leaned over to try to help me up but I refused. He shook his head and leaned closer, “The deal was I would let you out of the chair. I never said anything about letting you go.” The leaned back and turned for the kitchen. My breath held tight in my mouth at the thought of being trapped here with this man. As he passed through the kitchen door I began to crawl toward it after him. The wood splintered into my knees and my muscles cried for me to stop. The door shut in front of me and when I reached out to press upon it I heard the distinctive sound of metal sliding upon metal. He had engaged the lock and when I touched the wooden entryway it didn’t budge. I was trapped again and when I turned back to look at the window I heard the man speak once again, “Don’t bother with the windows, they have been barred shut. You might as well sit back down at the table and finish your food.” “That was a week ago,” as I finished my story. The detective sat scribbling notes in a pad as he sat next to my hospital bed. I lay there covered from the neck down in bandages. The pen stopped moving long enough for him to ask, “So, how did you escape?” "He took a little from me each night and I thought I was going to die. I lost consciousness and when I woke up I had been dropped off here,” I tried to move my hand when speaking but it hurt too much. He asked if I could remember where I was and I simply shook my head. I had been unconscious both coming and going from the place. Nothing about the room or the kitchen looked familiar. I know I wasn’t being much help. “Why do you think he let you go then?” he looked down and started writing again as he questioned. I thought to myself for a moment and said the only thing I could possibly think of, “He needed fresh meat.” Category:Dismemberment Category:L0CKED334 Category:Mental Illness